A Prayer for the Damned (17 page)

Eadulf stirred a little.

‘Was that the last time you saw Ultán?’ he asked quickly.

‘It was to speak to. I am not over-burdened with sorrow by that fact, nor, in all honesty, can I say that I mourn deeply, although he was a brother in Christ. Ultán of Cilia Ria was not a man who contributed to making this world a place of joy.’

‘You are honest, Abbot Augaire,’ Fidelma observed.

‘Probitas laudatur et alget,’
replied the abbot.

‘You read Juvenal?’ Fidelma recognised the quotation: honesty is often praised but ignored by most people.

‘I admire his
Satires.’

‘Well, I not only praise honesty but will not neglect it in my considerations. But since it is obvious that you did not like the late Abbot Ultán, perhaps we should begin by clarifying where you were last night around midnight?’

Abbot Augaire actually chuckled. ‘I have heard that you are an honest
dálaigh
, Fidelma of Cashel. That is why it would be pointless for me to pretend that I felt other than I did about Ultán. As to
where I was … I was playing a game of
brandubh
with Dúnchad Muirisci of the Uí Fiachracha Muaide until close to midnight.’

‘Dúnchad Muirisci, the heir apparent to Muirchertach Nár?’

Abbot Augaire nodded absently. ‘Then I came directly here to my chamber and fell asleep almost immediately. And,’ he added with a smile, ‘I regret to say that no one saw me do so. So I can only prove my whereabouts until the moment I left Dúnchad Muirisci. Oh, I tell a lie. I passed one of your brother’s bodyguards on my way from Dúnchad Muirisci’s chamber to my one. I bade him a peaceful night and he answered me.’

‘Dúnchad Muirisci’s chamber was a short distance along the corridor from Abbot Ultán’s chamber. In which direction were you heading?’ Eadulf asked.

‘My way did not pass Ultán’s chamber, even though you could see the door to it from Dúnchad Muirisci’s doorway.’

Eadulf frowned. ‘How did you know which was Ultán’s chamber?’

Abbot Augaire stared at him for a moment and then his features relaxed in a smile.

‘Simply because, when I was making my way to Dúnchad Muirisci’s chamber, where we had agreed to meet and have our game of
brandubh
, I saw Ultán entering a door in the corner of the corridor where it turns at a right angle. I gather that was his chamber. That was the last time I saw him as opposed to speaking to him.’

‘And when was that?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Sometime after the evening meal. He had barely entered his room when one of his party brushed by me hurriedly in the corridor in the same direction as I was going. I didn’t hear them before they pushed by. They went straight to his door and entered without knocking. Even as the door was closing, I heard Ultán’s voice raised in a hectoring tone.’

‘Which member of his party? Brother Drón?’

Abbot Augaire shook his head. ‘One of the two women in his party.’

‘You did not recognise her, I suppose? Can you describe her?’

‘I do not know any of his party except Brother Drón. As for describing her, all I saw was her back as she brushed by. She wore a long cloak with the
cabhal
pulled up over her head. I recall the
odour of some scent. I am not sure what. I am not good on such matters. It was strong. Perhaps honeysuckle. That was early in the evening. I thought Ultán was killed around midnight and I am told that Muirchertach was seen fleeing from his chamber.’

Fidelma sighed. ‘Much use is made of this word “fleeing”. It is a word that conjures guilt and prevents us from investigating a murder.’

‘So far as I am concerned, the person who killed Ultán did a public service,’ Abbot Augaire said firmly.

‘Nevertheless, Ultán was murdered, and there is a law to be answered.’

Abbot Augaire grimaced dismissively. ‘The irony is that Ultán refused to obey the law when he lived. Now that he is dead, others have to answer to a law that he ignored.’

Fidelma regarded the man carefully. ‘I would like you to tell me What you know of Ultán and how you came by your views of him.’

‘Not much to tell. But let me put this to you. If Muirchertach Nár is to be prosecuted, I would not want my words used to condemn him. If you are gathering evidence against him …’

Fidelma shook her head. ‘Muirchertach Nár has asked me to stand in his defence. He claims that he is innocent. It is the Brehon Ninnid who prosecutes.’

Abbot Augaire seemed to relax a little more and he smiled confidently. ‘Then I will tell you plainly what I know of Muirchertach and Ultán. I was sent as Muirchertach’s representative to demand compensation from Ultán for the death of the sister of Muirchertach’s wife. That was the beginning of our animosity.’

‘I have heard that you had a more personal interest in the matter?’

‘Personal?’ the response came sharply.

‘You saw the girl kill herself.’

‘I do not deny it.’

‘Tell us how that came about.’

Abbot Augaire sat back. ‘It was about three or four years ago. I was a member of a community on the shores of the southern borders of Connacht. It was a place not far from Muirchertach’s stronghold of Durlas. I was fishing on a small headland when this girl came along. The next thing I knew she had leapt to her death on the rocks. She was a very beautiful young woman. I could not imagine how
such a one, so beautiful, so youthful, with so much life in her and before her, could be forced into such a terrible act.’

‘You did not know who she was?’ asked Eadulf.

‘Not then. I started to make inquiries and these led me to the fortress of our king at Durlas. I found out that the girl’s name was Searc and that she was the younger sister of the king’s wife Aïbnat. I remembered her ethereal beauty that day on the foreshore. To explain my feelings, I suppose that I was moved by her image – the youth, beauty and femininity that she represented, you understand? I pledged my service to that image, to Aíbnat and Muirchertach, swearing that I would discover the reason for her death and punish those responsible.’

Fidelma was aware that there was a faint mistiness in his eyes as if he were holding back tears.

‘It sounds as if this girl, in death, had touched something in you,’ she said.

The abbot seemed to pull himself together. ‘Her image still does. How many nights have I not been able to sleep as I run the events of that day through my mind, saying “if only”. If only I had not been so blind as to fail to see the tragedy that was about to unfold; if only I … Ah, well.
Sic erat in fatis
, to quote Juvenal again.’

‘So it was fated,’ Eadulf repeated. ‘So you blamed yourself for her death and that is why you took such trouble. Was her involvement with the religieux from Cill Ria known at that time?’

‘It was. She was a poetess. I found out about the gathering at Ard Macha from some who had attended. I began to make inquiries about this boy, Senach, with whom she had fallen in love, and traced him to Cill Ria. I then found out what had happened to the boy.’

Eadulf was approving. ‘It sounds as though you would make a good investigator, Augaire. So it was you who discovered the details. Searc had not told her sister, or Muirchertach?’

‘It seems not.’

‘Having discovered this information, what then?’ asked Fidelma.

He replied with quiet vehemence: ‘I swore vengeance on those who had prevented that young girl from achieving happiness, and in her grief had compelled her to her death …’

‘But what did you do in practical terms?’

Abbot Augaire seemed to shake himself and resume his normal demeanour. ‘I went to Muirchertach and Aíbnat and told them what I had discovered. Muirchertach was pleased …’

‘Pleased? That is an odd way to react to this tragic tale.’

Abbot Augaire thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps I have used the wrong word? He was pleased by the revelation of the truth about Searc. I had resolved the mystery as to why she had killed herself.’

‘Was Aíbnat also, er, pleased?’

Abbot Augaire suddenly grimaced. ‘Aíbnat is a fine noble lady of the Uí Briúin but her main emotions are irritation and anger and those she has in abundance. She made no comment, not even gratitude for the resolution of this mystery. She is a dour, sombre soul.’

‘Perhaps with reason?’ queried Fidelma. ‘Her young sister killed herself. That is reason enough to be sombre.’

Abbot Augaire leaned forward as if confiding something. ‘Truth to tell, Fidelma of Cashel, I do not think that she was overly upset by the death of her sister. I heard rumours during my … er, investigations. It was said that there was n6 love lost between them. Indeed, I heard that Aíbnat showed some jealousy at her sister’s beauty.’

‘But she was angry enough to start this demand for compensation against Ultán of Cill Ria?’ Eadulf pointed out.

Abbot Augaire glanced at him and then shook his head. ‘That was Muirchertach’s idea. He said it would please his wife. But the idea was put to me without consultation with Aíbnat. I found out later that she was against the idea.’

‘How did that come about?’ asked Fidelma.

‘Well, at first, as I said, Muirchertach was pleased with what I had done. He wanted to reward me. He had the power to make me abbot in one of the kingdom’s abbeys.’

Fidelma nodded. It was not an unusual matter for kings who had great influence in their territories to offer ecclesiastical rewards.

‘Only a few months before, the Blessed Féchin, the abbot of Conga, just north of Loch Corrib, had succumbed to the Yellow Plague. These events, you understand, happened, in fact, about the same time of the great council at Witebia.’

‘I had heard that Abbot Féchin had fallen sick and died of the Yellow Plague,’ Fidelma affirmed.

‘To be offered such an abbey was a great thing for a poor monk such as I. Truly was the Blessed Féchin and his work renowned through the five kingdoms. Muirchertach’s senior bishop was summoned and I was ordained both bishop and abbot of Conga.’

‘And was this reward because you discovered the reason why Searc took her own life?’ demanded Eadulf cynically.

Abbot Augaire gave a lopsided grin. ‘I think politics played a part.’

‘Politics?’

‘You know that the lady Aíbnat was the daughter of Rogallach mac Uatach of the Uí Briúin Ai, who are rivals to the Uí Fiachracha for the kingship of Connacht?’

Eadulf looked helpless.

‘Rogallach was king of Connacht and died nearly twenty years ago,’ Fidelma explained quickly. ‘But when he died, through the influence of Féchin and other leading churchmen, it was first Laidgnen and then his brother Guaire Aidne of the Uí Fiachracha who became kings. Guaire was Muirchertach’s father.’

Abbot Augaire was nodding. ‘Muirchertach wanted to keep the abbey of Conga in the hands of someone who owed him a debt and therefore allegiance.’

‘Which you do?’ queried Fidelma.

‘I make no secret of it. My father was a huntsman, a tracker. From a humble beginning, now, as abbot and bishop, I control lands that make Ultán’s miserable house at Cill Ria look poverty-stricken. From the river of the Uí Briúin northward to Sliabh Neimhtheann and from the Ford of the Sanctuary west to the great sea coast, these are the lands of the abbey of Conga.’

Abbot Augaire sounded as if he were boasting. Fidelma was looking disapproving.

‘And what did you have to give in return for this?’

‘Loyalty and service to Muirchertach,’ he replied simply.

‘Which included being his envoy to Ultán?’

‘That, indeed, has been the extent of my service. I made the trip to Cill Ria seven times during two years. I was accompanied by a brehon to add to my authority. After which, these last two years, I have not been called upon for any service. I was glad when my journeys to Cill Ria ended. Each trip to Ultán made me want to forget
that we both served God and were brothers in Christ. His refusal to concede any wrongdoing and even any involvement in the deaths of Senach and Searc made me, frankly, want to lay hands on him in a physical sense.’

‘When compensation was demanded, he refused?’

Abbot Augaire grimaced irritably. ‘Did that slimy little scribe Drón tell you that? He was usually at our meetings and bleating on about the
Penitentials
overriding the rule of our law. It became monotonous.’

‘To sum up,’ Fidelma said, ‘Ultán refused to accept judgement by a brehon under our law.’

‘Saying that he ruled by the
Penitentials
and would hear no more of the laws of the brehons in his abbey,’ agreed Augaire.

Fidelma sat back thoughtfully and folded her hands.

‘There is one thing that puzzles me,’ she said softly.

‘Which is?’

‘The law is plain. There is a course that could have been taken to pressurise Ultán into submitting to the justice of a brehon.’

‘Which is?’

‘If a defendant is of the
nemed
rank, that is a privileged person or noble – and Ultán certainly came into the class of privilege – then the plaintiff could, if willing, proceed to the
troscud
, the ritual fast to ensure the defendant accepts judgement. Several times this has been used against the
óes ecalso
– churchmen of rank – to ensure they accept civil judgement.’

Abbot Augaire smiled sadly. ‘Such a ritual fast was discussed and even attempted.’

‘The
apad
was properly made?’ Fidelma asked. ‘The notification to all concerned parties?’

‘So far as I know, it was.’

‘Who undertook the
troscud
? Muirchertach was not blood kin and therefore he was excluded. So was it Aíbnat?’

‘She was not concerned in the matter at all.’

‘Then who?’

‘Muirchertach persuaded a cousin of Searc, a youth named Cathal, to undertake the
troscud
on behalf of the blood kindred.’

‘So what happened?’

‘An evil sleight of hand, so far as I could see, and this is why I came to hate Ultán so much.’

‘You’d best explain.’

‘Cathal and his brehon went to a small chapel within sight of the walls of Cill Ria. The notices were given and the fast began. You will correct me on the law, Fidelma, but I have been told that if the plaintiff, that is Cathal, persists in his fast even though the defendant, Ultán, has offered to settle the case, the case automatically lapses. The defendant is exonerated and no further action can be taken.’